


Eye of Orion

by TrakeniteTourist (auronlu)



Series: Bird Has Flown [4]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: F/M, Kissing in the Rain, WAFF, because right now we could use some mental comfort food, extreme fluff warning, written as an escape from the AAAAH THE WORLD IS ON FIRE dystopia we're now living in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9466721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auronlu/pseuds/TrakeniteTourist
Summary: The Doctor takes Nyssa to his favorite vacation spot. And for once, absolutely nothing happens to spoil their day. Sexytimes ensue.





	

Nyssa will remember these moments.

Not just running for their lives, her one life to his dozen. Not just the exasperating yet rewarding days spent on TARDIS maintenance, or fixing a planet’s problems, or adapting to the bizarre customs that are, for humans, ordinary and routine.

She will remember the rare empty moments between adventures.

The Doctor is a force of nature, and he, too, abhors a vacuum. Most of those who travel with him are of like mind. They crave encounters, adventure, experiences.

She would not stay with him if she had not acquired a taste for these things. But deep down, she wants _home_. She is too tactful to mention it, of course. For him, it would be a stinging reminder of his failures, and she is not Tegan. But he must know. She wants peace in a universe where there is little to be found, even in the Earth village she’s come to love because he loves it so. She wants beauty, having seen ugliness beyond comprehension and trod in the grime and blood of too many dystopias. She wants to hone skills and talents that have atrophied since she left the world where they mattered.

He prefers to be in perpetual motion. But sometimes, the Doctor remembers the sleepy world she came from, and he brings her to empty places like this.

The Eye of Orion is a tourist’s paradise of rolling green hills and picturesque ruins. It’s not pristine, by any means; there’s food wrappers and paved paths and hovertours. But go far enough back in its past, before the gift shops and faux cottages and spaceports, and one can find— peace. Open countryside, trees and untrodden grass and clean lakes. It’s one of the few worlds where she can wander alone without fear, and the Doctor need not trouble himself about her safety.

Which is why Nyssa has not seen him yet this morning. He is probably out walking over the hills, long legs carrying him across the green turf at a pace she always struggles to match. She slept in and dawdled over breakfast, resting sore limbs from their most recent adventure.

Now the sun is well and truly up, shining through the thin cloud cover. Wearing a light shell to ward off occasional sprinkles, Nyssa picks her way alongside a meandering brook on the valley floor, near a copse of trees where she took shelter during a brief shower.

There are many species of flowers here, most past their peak. They are not Trakenite plants, but she was once a gardener, and so she understands their language and their signs. She kneels on a tussock to examine little pink stars with whiskers for pollinators to use as perches. A vine spilling out from the grove bears swelling calyxes that will ripen into fruit in a few months. Papery seeds are scattered on the muddy bank, each bearing its feathery flag that carried it on the wind. Algae blankets a stone at the water’s edge. Mushrooms devour a fallen log. There is order here, balance in nature’s burgeoning disorder.

A splash and the slap of a jostled stepping-stone alerts her to the Doctor’s return. She rises, watching him leap carelessly across the brook. His hair and the shoulders of his coat are damp; his spirits are not.

“Ah, Nyssa! Enjoying a spot of botany, I see.”

“Good morning, Doctor.” She plucks a spray of red blossoms and waits for him to reach her. “Find anything?”

“Glass nodules on a hill a few miles away, probably tectites. I think this region must have suffered an impact long ago. A nest that may interest you: I can’t quite tell whether it’s been woven, or whether there’s a plant growing in symbiosis with some species of bird. And, of course, a fine view. What’s this?” His easy grin turns indignant as she removes his celery and tucks it into his pocket.

“Decorative.” She slips the cluster of flowers into his buttonhole and gives his lapel a pat. He can’t frown at her for long, not with that fairy smile that touches her eyes more than her lips as she steps back to inspect him.

He clears his throat. “So. Refreshed and ready to go, are we?”

“Not entirely.” She tilts her head, contemplating him with a quiet fondness that she knows he still has trouble reading. She does not notice often— or rather, it’s secondary to his force of personality and convictions— but once in a while, she is selfishly grateful that this regeneration molded him into such an appealling guise: a pleasant youthful face, soft enough for fools to underestimate him; deft, capable hands; a fit frame that he usually keeps too well-covered to reveal his cricketer’s arms. It’s all veneer, of course, camouflage for an ancient soul who could look like almost anyone. But this is who he is now. As far as she can tell, the changes wrought by transformation are more than skin deep, affecting personality, memories, interests. Whatever he was or will be, in this body he is _her_ Doctor, as the one before was Romana’s.

“Something on your mind?” he says.

“Not my mind.” She smiles, almost apologetically. “Or at least, not altogether. While you were exploring, it occurred to me that an unpopulated landscape offers other benefits besides peace and quiet.”

“Such as?”

“Privacy.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.” It’s hard to be sure whether he caught her meaning, but there’s a faint gruffness in his voice, an echo of that ragged tenderness that she has been privileged to hear from him a handful of times.

Time for them is relative. But it has been at least six months since that sweet night under the stars when Nyssa finally coaxed him to relax his self-imposed rules of conduct, adding one more dimension to a relationship he refuses to define. Since then, they have not indulged such impulses very often. There is so much else that needs doing, and neither of them is prone to passion. But today, surrounded by green, growing things, she found herself daydreaming in a decidedly earthy manner.

“However,” he continues, “there is one drawback. Bucolic poetry notwithstanding, vegetation is not always… er… comfortable.”

She chuckles. His awkward phrasing suggests that for once, his mind, too, has been straying to less cerebral matters. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Nyssa,” he says, sounding aggrieved at her misuse of one of his catch phrases.

“ _Doctor._ ” Shaking her head, she turns and heads for higher ground, moving unhurriedly towards the nearby copes of trees. “So, are you coming?”

He follows. She reaches back to take his hand.

There is nothing especially notable about the spot she is making for, save that the spreading ferns beneath the leafy canopy are drier, and a climbing creeper has twined many of the lower branches with sweet-smelling yellow flowers. Here the shallow roots of a great old tree have maintained a circular clearing in the heart of the grove. Tucked among tree-roots are a blanket rolled in a waterproof tarp and a small picnic basket with fruit, a round of cheese and two insulated bottles.

“That looks a little more practical,” he says, and helps her spread out the blanket.

They settle side by side, looking up at the fractal patterns of the leaves sifting glimpses of gray sky. The rainclouds are beginning to move out. The Doctor plucks an apple from the basket and nibbles absently. Nyssa folds away her rain slicker, pours drinks from a thermos and stretches out her legs beside him with a cup of hot tea. No one who saw them, least of all the few friends who knew them before, would see any difference in their understated camaraderie. In a moment, one of them will bring up a physics conundrum, or the complex language of tattoos they saw on their last planet, or the necessity of deferred TARDIS maintenance.

“It’s strange,” Nyssa says eventually. “We can do this any time we like. Yet in the meantime, with all of time and space at our fingertips, there’s a good chance someone out there needs us right now. How do you bear it?”

“Taking time to relax, you mean?”

“Or travelling for the thrill of exploration, instead of for the sake of helping those in trouble.”

“Well,” he said slowly, putting an arm behind her when she leans her head against his shoulder, “I seldom spend time like this doing _nothing,_ for that very reason. When we explore, trouble has a way of finding us.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She drains her cup and sets it aside.

“So there’s no need to seek it out. On the other hand…” He hesitates, trying for words. “The Time Lords make an art of doing nothing. Noninterference is their rule, save in the rarest of cases, when the Web of Time would otherwise collapse. If I simply invert their way of life, I’m still beholden to it. Better to take things as they come. Because even with a TARDIS and dependable help—” his arm tightens a fraction— “I can’t be everywhere or do everything. I’ll always fall short. So I fall back on helping where I can and making sure I live life fully along the way. That’s something else I think my people have forgotten how to do.”

“Except sometimes you don’t—”

Before she can tease him, his arm at her back draws her sideways across his lap. “—dare to savour the small, beautiful opportunities that present themselves,” he agrees, bowing his head. The half-eaten apple goes rolling away into the ferns.

She tips up her chin to meet his lips, which are slightly cool due to his more efficient metabolism. The whisper of rustling leaves and scent of wet flowers are pure bliss to one reared on a garden world. His kisses are loving, whatever he chooses to call the bond between them. His hands are gentle, whether cupping the sides of her face or gliding his fingers up her thigh. She shivers then, smiling at his satisfied chuckle.

“Any requests?” he says, pausing to plant a kiss on each eyelid when her eyes drift closed with a sigh of contentment.

“More of that… would be nice,” she says, a little breathless.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Still cradling her in one arm, he leans her back gently to kiss her neck and throat. She can’t do much in that position but hang on, one hand clinging to his shoulder. Nor can she see what he’s doing, as his right hand begins to play over her body, fingertips stroking through velvet. Knee or inner thigh, belly or collarbones, they all come alive at his touch. At length she realises her eyes have fallen shut again. She opens them to find him looking down at her, studying her face with a look of thoughtful concentration. She emits a helpless giggle as he palms her breast.

“I was hoping for a different reaction,” he chides, but he does not stop.

“I know, but—” she gasps as he darts another touch between her legs, massaging more firmly, “stimulus and response… observations… refinement of hypotheses from available data… the scientific method… _?_ ”

“You seem to be enjoying it.”

“You seem to be forgetting the observer effect.” She reaches up and tickles his ear. “Also, the rule about a scientist not becoming part of his experiment?”

“Except that I haven’t—”

“Precisely!” she says, sitting up and drawing his head down for a more heated kiss than before.

Some minutes later, rather flushed, he comes up for air to observe, “It’s started raining again.”

“More astute observations.” She pauses to listen to the slow pat-pat-pat of drops striking leaves. “I don’t mind unless it starts pouring.”

“In that case, there’s a simple way to ensure our clothes stay dry.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Nyssa reaches for his cricket jumper, wriggling her fingers against his ribs. He responds in kind. Divesting one another of clothing takes rather longer than it would otherwise, since the process keeps getting sidetracked in a leisurely tickling match. By the time they are finished, the light ran has begun to penetrate the forest canopy. Nyssa quickly scoops their clothes under the edge of the tarp.

The rain is only a little cooler than the Doctor’s skin, prickling their backs and shoulders as she resumes her place in his lap. He flinches, voice going higher. “Careful.”

“Sorry.” She adjusts her seat, deliciously aware of his proximity. “Better?”

“Mmm…. aah.” He breathes out. “Science is all very well, but I have to admit—” he pauses, swallowing as she kisses his adam’s apple— “there is something to be said for poetry.”

“Any poem in particular?”

His hands are roaming again, following the curve of her spine down, circling the nip of her waist and settling there. He has gone quiet. Nyssa opens her mouth to prod him, but then instinct warns her to check her tongue.

“It…” he says finally, and then his voice firms. _“It happened at last.”_

Nyssa’s breath catches. She has never questioned him on how he sees their friendship. She knows there’s no surmounting the chasm of time between an annual and perennial. But maybe…

“ _Without intimidation…with symmetry of wish._  
_So I gave…and you gave._  
_And we were fair._  
_It happened with marvellous ease_  
_Like writing with jasmine water,  
__Like a spring flowing from the ground.”_

She sits up to brush her lips against his cheek. “That’s lovely. Where’s it from?”

“An Earth poet.” Of course. “Qabbani. A generation or so before Tegan.”

Nyssa looks up to catch the fleeting emotion in his eyes before he retreats back into himself. Sometimes she can almost hear the edge of his mind, just out of reach. What she senses now, if she’s not simply projecting her own feelings, is a yearning stillness threaded with sparks of lust and anxiety and adoration held tightly in check. “Symmetry of wish,” she murmurs, letting her hands rest over his hearts for a few precious beats. Then she and the Doctor fall upon one another without need for any more words.

They wrestle together, mouths and hands grazing and skipping over each other’s bodies, voiceless at first, then losing inhibitions enough to sigh or groan without embarrassment. Rain slicks their shoulders and brings out goosebumps on Nyssa’s skin, making her cuddle closer. But she is pliant when he coaxes her to arch back, letting him kiss and nibble his way across her breasts until she is whimpering. At last, caressing one another in warm, expansive strokes, they tumble over, Nyssa landing on top. She nuzzles his chest and then sits up, gathering his hands between hers to kiss his knuckles.

Their eyes meet. Silently they arrange themselves, Nyssa straddling him. He lets out an explosive breath when she lowers herself onto him. The sound almost sends her into another fit of giggles. But then he is solid and real and filling her. Her world contracts for a split second, an overwhelming jolt of sensations making her quake as he slides against the bundle of nerves just inside.

When she recovers herself, she begins to rise and fall. Her movements are a little unsteady, feeling for the steps of a dance she is still learning. They never break eye contact, watching the flashes of raw pleasure reflected in each other’s gazes. The Doctor’s pink face and unabashed grin is wonderful to see, openly enjoying himself for a change. Hands interlaced, they ride the stairstep rise of pleasure, up and down, forward and back, giving and receiving, until Nyssa’s legs are trembling when she lifts up, and his panting breaths grow harsher and louder with every downstroke.

Faster, harder — it feels as if they will hold out forever this time, until suddenly Nyssa is jerking and shuddering, dimly aware of his hands steadying her shoulders as she cries out. The waves of euphoria are still crashing over her when his hands tighten hard enough to bruise. His body arches and lifts her off the ground. Nyssa tries to prolong the moment with subtle, delicate pulses, squeezing him until he groans hoarsely and bucks his hips, losing control in a wild thrusting release. The angle hurts a little, but she is boneless with fading ecstasy, still floating on the last delicious ripples when he finally goes limp and sinks back to the blanket, throwing his arms around her.

She crumples across his chest. He begins to comb his fingers through her hair, soothing. Her curls have drawn up in tight wet ringlets around her ears from the rain and her own perspiration. Very carefully, he rolls them onto their sides and winds up above her, hips rocking with a slow, languid rhythm until he slips out.

They remain tangled together, kissing softly until the rain ends. Nyssa is still warm and tingling when at last they disengage and begin to gather up their belongings. She cannot remember the last time she felt so sated.

 

Nyssa tries to remember every moment, but her memory is mortal, and time and new experiences slowly erode her recollection of her travels. So it is only decades later that a beautiful memory is jogged by half-familiar words in a file of ancient Earth literature. Surrounded by clinical steel and plastic, she is swept away to her youth and the sound of falling rain, the scent of wet leaves and earth, his strong body pressed against hers, the Doctor’s halting voice reciting a love poem from fifteen centuries ago. The words on the screen are almost the same, but one jumps out. She does not think he said it quite that way. Surely she would have remembered.And surely he is the most stubborn man she has ever known.

 

**_On Entering The Sea_ **

_Love happened at last,_  
_And we entered God’s paradise,_  
_Sliding_  
_Under the skin of the water_  
_Like fish._  
_We saw the precious pearls of the sea  
_ _And were amazed._

 _Love happened at last…_  
_Without intimidation…with symmetry of wish._  
_So I gave…and you gave._  
_And we were fair._  
_It happened with marvellous ease._  
_Like writing with jasmine water,  
_ _Like a spring flowing from the ground._

_—Nizar Qabbani_

 


End file.
